The day had been a bit shit, to be honest. Someone had dented my car in the supermarket; customer services had said that their CCTV didn’t cover that area, and even if it did, rules meant that they couldn’t share the footage. When I got home, the egg box fell out of my shopping bag, and half of the eggs broke, so I now only had just enough to bake the cake I wanted for tomorrow.

It had genuinely been one of those days that just make me want to cry. I sat with a glass of wine in the conservatory, and as I looked out, a bird left me a large deposit that smeared all down the glass.

“Fucking hell,” I said out loud. I mean, really? What have I done to the world? I put my glass down and went into the kitchen and got spray-on glass cleaner and some paper towels. I sprayed and cleaned the glass, threw the paper towels in the bin and then knocked my wine over when I sat down. I just sat and cried.

As I looked down, I realised that I had snagged my stockings right up the front. I just decided that I ought to go back to bed and pretend that today had never happened. I locked my front door and went upstairs. The stairs creaked. They always do. It is an old house.

Years ago, the house was a vicarage. It stopped being a vicarage in the Second World War when the church was bombed and destroyed. They never did rebuild the church; it wasn’t a high church, just a parish, and I guessed that the other parish churches would have picked up the slack. Long story short, the house ended up in private hands, and now I own it.

I have lived here for about six months, and it is just an odd house. It is all gothic, with arched windows and vaulted ceilings, lots of different pitches and gables on the roof, and a large garden. No garage; I guess they never expected vicars to be able to afford a carriage back in the day.

The house creaks; it really does. If the sun comes up early and shines on the house, there is a set of creaks that start in the east. If it is later in the day, say around lunchtime, a completely different set of creaks happens, as if from the south. The wind whistles through the attic; sometimes it sounds like someone is rummaging around up there. I just have to learn to ignore all the sounds.

I had just got to the top of the stairs when my front doorbell bonged. And I do mean bonged. It is one of those ancient Victorian things, a set of rods and pipes connected to an outdoor lever that pulls on a large internal bell in the hallway. You can’t miss it; it will never ever allow you to miss it.

I turned around and trudged back downstairs. I wasn’t expecting anyone; why would anyone be coming at this time? I know it was early, really only just after 6, but my day had been such shit that it needed to be terminated. Terminated with extreme prejudice. I unlocked the door and swung it open.

"Hello,wine; you,” Alice said. She is from sort of next door. “I have wine; you have glasses; let them join together.” The next door is about fifty yards away.

“Oh, hi, Alice, right, yes, come in.” I stood to one side, and Alice and a bottle of pinot noir swept past me and headed to the kitchen. She knows where the bottle opener is.

I re-shut the front door and followed, mentally wondering whether to get the good crystal glasses out of the oak dresser in the drawing room or the cheap supermarket glasses out of the kitchen larder unit. Alice already had the cheap glasses; no decision was needed. The kind of day I was having probably meant that the cheap glasses were a better option.

No corkscrew needed; it was one of those popular bottles of wine with the screw top. Oh well. I was sure that the wine would be okay. I always bought wine with corks; it was a sort of rule, but some of the screw-top stuff had been okay, I supposed.

“Let’s sit in the orangery," Alice said. “The sun is still shining, and it will be bright and warm.” Anyone would think that this was her house, not mine.

I led the way through the parlour to the orangery. I suppose these days people tend to have conservatories, but this was an old rambling Georgian house, and it had an orangery. I really ought to buy some grapevines and lemon trees to put in there; I just haven't got around to it. All it had, at the moment, was a couple of wicker sofas and small side tables.

I turned the screws that opened the windows in the glass ceiling; it was a little stuffy in there and I flopped on one of the sofas. I made a mental note to make sure I closed the roof windows before I went to bed; if the rain came and it came from the west, it would rain in. I had learnt that just after I moved in, and it took a week to dry the sofas.

"Right, Mica," Alice said, pouring wine into my glass, "a cheeky pinot, so let’s throw it back, and you can tell me what you have been up to.”

“The day from hell, Alice, the day from hell,” I replied. "You would not believe the crap day that I have endured. I was, in fact, about to call it a done deal and head to bed when you arrived.” I went on to recount the mishaps and events of the day.

“Oh, poor you,” Alice said. "Chin chin, drink up; the pinot will help.

“To be fair, it is,” I answered, as was the cheerful company. Alice sort of synched herself closer and was pressing against me. It was comforting, I pushed back. Alice took more of her wine and then turned in the chair to look at me; her free hand lay on my leg.

“How are you, you know, in yourself?” She asked, her fingers slightly squeezing.

“Oh, I am fine, Alice; I just, you know, potter on.”

“Are you over the divorce, or do you still feel something?”

“I don’t think about it these days, if I am honest. It took a while for everything to go through, and then with my settlement I bought this place, and, well, I haven’t had to think about him since.”

“That’s good,” Alice smiled, her hand moving slightly further up my leg as she spoke. “Lonely?”

"Yeah," I replied, “at times, yes, it can get a bit lonely, but, well, I always have my plastic friend." I laughed, and then as I realised what I had said, I felt a little embarrassed.

“You don’t need to be lonely,” she said, and her fingers reached my crotch and pressed against my gusset. I gasped, and a river of pleasure shot through me, and I looked at Alice. Her eyes seemed to glisten; her mouth was slightly open.

“I know,” I said, unsure of whether I wanted to take the next step.

Alice’s finger gently stroked along my gusset, starting above my perineum; she moved over my fourchette and gently pressed my knickers into my valley. I shivered in anticipation and eased my legs further apart. I suddenly realised that this was not what I wanted and gently eased her hand away.

Alice leant over and brushed my lips with hers. "Maybe not today,” she said, “but someday.”

I gulped and looked at her. "Maybe," I said. "Please don’t be upset; today has just not been a good day.”

“I am not upset, Mica; I can wait for you. You are worth it. Now then, let’s get this wine drunk.”

We sat and chatted about nothing for a couple of hours, and then it was dark, too dark to sit in the orangery. I stood up, and Alice followed. I took her glass from her and put it in the kitchen sink.

“I shall go,” Alice said. "You know where I am if you want to chat.”

“Yes,” I said, and we embraced before Alice left. I looked out as she went; the sky was dark, with a full moon hiding behind clouds. Winds gusting, and a few leaves left over from autumn flying in the air. I shivered and shut the door, drawing the bolts across. Not an evening to be outside.

I checked around downstairs once more; everything was secure, windows were shut and doors were locked. I turned the lights off in the hall and headed upstairs. In the bathroom I stripped and washed myself using a sponge. My knickers went into the laundry; everything else I would wear tomorrow. I cleaned my teeth and headed to my bedroom. It was a little chilly, but then I was naked, and I would soon warm up in bed.

I realised that I had forgotten to put my heated blanket on, so the bed was cold. I switched it on; it would take a few minutes to warm up, and I would have to suffer cold sheets until then. I didn’t bother drawing the curtains; it was a dark night out, and I was pretty sleepy and would soon nod off.

I lay on my back, my quilt up to my neck, my arms inside. I could feel the blanket slowly beginning to warm. As I lay there, I thought of Alice, of her approach, and of how I had felt. It had been arousing, and I had been tempted; I just wasn’t really in the mood. It had been a long time since I had been with another girl; there was no need to rush into another relationship.

‘Mica’

My eyes snapped open, and I looked into the semi-darkness of my room. What was that? I was sure that I heard my name.

‘Mica’

There it was again, my name. Was I asleep? Was I dreaming? I couldn’t tell. I knew I had dreamt I was sleeping before, and when you wake up from your dream but you are still asleep and you have to wake up again, that is very discombobulating. I had done it a few times; I must be doing it again, but how would I know?

‘Mica, I want you.'

Again. The voice in my dream – I tried to listen carefully to see if there was anyone in the house, but if I were dreaming, then could I believe my ears? I watched the window; I could see moving shadows, mostly the clouds in front of the moon.

‘Mica, I must have you.' 

I sat up and pinched myself. "Fucking ouch." Yeah, that was me, pinching myself; it hurt. I guessed I wasn’t asleep. Now I have seen those horror films where someone gets up to investigate strange noises. Yeah, I have seen them. Sitting up is one thing; getting up is another. Unlike people in horror films, I turned my bedside light on. 

I blinked several times; the light was bright enough to cause discomfort for a second in the darkness of my room. I listened, creaking, the usual evening creaking – nothing else. 

“Hello?” I queried the room – nothing. I looked around, cocking my head, listening. I could only hear the usual creaks, and then, there it was. A new creak. A footstep creaked on the landing outside my door. 

‘Mica’ 

Well, the voice was still there, but 1, I wasn’t getting out of bed, and 2, no way was I going to investigate anything that could not be investigated from under the quilt on my bed. 

My bedroom door opened. It hadn’t been shut and latched, just sort of pushed to. And now I watched as the door opened. Okay, absolutely not investigating. 

‘Mica, I see you, Mica.' 

Fuck. It is times like this that you wish that you had a fuck-off big silver cross, big enough to ward off demons, not that I believe in demons, and heavy enough to crack open an invading person's skull. My cross was on a small silver chain and weighed around 10 grams. It wouldn’t crack the skull of an invading ant. 

I could see a shadowy shape moving across my bedroom, almost like smoke, only not like smoke. The shape approached the bed and seemed to coalesce into the shape of a man. A naked man. An aroused naked man. I tightened my grip on the quilt. 

The quilt seemed to become silken, and I lost my grip; it pulled from my fingers, slid down my body and fell in a heap at the foot of the bed. I covered my breasts with one hand and my fanny with the other. The shape seemed to stare through me, and then it knelt on the bed. 

I felt a hand touch my left ankle, and I half jumped out of my skin. The hand moved up to my knee, and as it moved, I realised there was a hand on my right ankle. It moved too, and soon both hands were on the skin above my knees. There was pressure on my inner thighs, my legs parting. 

I tried to focus on my visitor, but he seemed to fade in and out; one moment he was a solid and very aroused man, and the next he seemed like a wisp of cloud. When he touched, his touch was cool; when he vapourised, I could feel little. What was this? Was this my imagination?

The apparition, for that is what I determined he must be, knelt and blew his cool breath along my crease, my petals fluttering at the breeze. My pleasures flowed; I gasped, my fingers clutched at the bedding, my neck arched back, and I stared at the dark ceiling.

“Oh, my fucking God,” I gasped as a cold tongue teased my clitoris from its hiding place, pressing at my nubbin. The tongue pressed and licked; it pushed and it sucked. My clitoris felt bigger than it had ever been; pleasures were coursing through me. I realised that I was gulping; my fingers were clutching at the bedding. Oh, fuck.

The tongue eased down from my clitoris and ran gently down my valley, sliding between my petals, heading to my most secret of places. My entrance was circled by a cold tongue; shivers ran along my spine, shivers of pleasure. I was too far gone to be afraid, not now, not any more.

His tongue pressed in, widening my entrance, pushing through my opening; my fingers tried to tear holes in the bedding, and my heels pushed down hard on the mattress. I was being shagged by a bloody ghost. What sort of ghost shags people? I have no idea; I didn’t even think that they could do that.

Fingers ran along my arse, over my crinkle and along my perineum. I had the very odd sensation of a tongue withdrawing and fingers inserting, and then the fingers moved within me.

“Oh, shit, oh, fuck,” I gasped as my pressures nearly blew and pleasures went through the roof. Were ghosts affected by electricity? If so? This one had better watch out, as my electrics were fizzing. I was rocking up and down on the bed, almost bucking like a young horse.

His fingers moved inside me, sometimes back and forth, sometimes opening and closing, stretching my fanny and then allowing it to shrink again. It had been a long time since anything other than my own fingers had been there; it was surreal not knowing what the fingers would do next.

His cool fingers slowly eased out of me, pausing at my opening, and then just as I thought it was all over, he thrust them back inside me. I screamed, I squealed, I gurgled and I climaxed, my body covered with sweat as my pleasures exploded. I realised that my fanny was empty; he had withdrawn.

I felt him moving up my body, his vaporous body sliding over mine, giving me nothing to grasp or to hold onto. His face was in mine, his smoky eyes boring into mine, and his dick nudged my entrance, hardening unlike his body, and he pushed. Slowly his dick forced my petals apart; slowly his cold dick pushed into my fanny until I was filled with what felt like ice.

‘Oh, Mica,’ his voice whispered into my face, and then he withdrew, paused, and hovered at my entrance, my petals fluttering in anticipation. He held; he didn’t move, and then he smiled, a ghostly smile made of mist, and then he thrust hard and fast. Breath exploded from my lungs; his mouth covered mine, his cold lips pressing against mine as his dick filled my body.

I shivered, I gasped, and I held my breath. His tongue began to solidify and search inside my mouth, a coldness as within my fanny. He began to shag my face with his tongue in synchronisation with his dick in my fanny. He was going faster, harder; my mouth felt cold yet hot, and my fanny pulsed as his dick slid back and forth.

I felt the rim of his dick as it slid over my ridges and bumps; I felt the pressure at my depth when he filled me, his glans pressing hard. I felt my petals slide along his shaft as it left and refilled me, and I realised I was holding my breath.

I tore my face away and gulped air, my chest heaving as I refilled my lungs. His fingers solidified, and he teased at my nipples, squeezing them and pulling them as his dick pumped into my body.

‘Oh, Mica,’ his ghostly voice whispered and then he thrust hard and I felt a huge coolness inside me, his ejaculate as cold as the rest of him. My second orgasm erupted; I knew not from where. My pleasures coursed through me, my fanny clamped, squeezing, tightening, and my buttocks left the bed, my back arching high.

I collapsed back onto the bed, my eyes staring at nothing. The clouds had parted, and the moonlight streamed into my room, my empty room. There was only me and my cold, damp bed.